


Dirthara-ma

by jakia



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: AU, F/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 11:14:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5002597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jakia/pseuds/jakia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fen’Harel remakes the world over. And over. And over.</p>
<p>Only Lavellan ever remembers. </p>
<p>[reincarnation fic. Time is a timey-whimey ball of string. One-shot. Solavellan]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirthara-ma

* * *

 

_In your heart shall burn_

_An unquenchable flame_

_All-consuming, and never satisfied._

 

* * *

In her first life—at least, the first that she can remember—she is a Dalish hunter, sent to spy on a meeting between Mages and Templars. She leaves the Conclave with a mark on her hand and a destiny bigger than she is.

But that’s only the first life.

The next one, she’s a slave in Arlathan, with Mythal’s ownership written all over her face. He recognizes her the second he sees her, and his heart stops.

“Vhenan?” He whispers, a great wolf rushing from Mythal’s side to her own. “ _How?_ ”

She doesn’t have an answer for him: one moment she was pointing an arrow at a falling sky, as if to stop oblivion. The next, she is here, wearing a different face with a head full of memories that are hers, but also aren’t.

He pulls her aside, and, when he can’t stand it anymore, removes the vallaslin from her face.

But she is still a slave in this world, and her lack of vallaslin sparks the rebellion he was trying to prevent, and Arlathan burns again.

* * *

 

In the next life, she is an empress over what would have been Orlais, once. But in this world, the Dales never fall, and she rules over an elven empire with a grace, beauty, and a hardened heart.

She takes many lovers, but none of them are him, and eventually _she’s_ the one who burns down the world looking for him.

* * *

 

In the life after that, there are no people—no elves, no dwarves, no humans—only the beasts remain.

He is a wolf, always, but she is a dragon, and she swallows him whole. What use does a dragon have for a wolf? The answer is none, and her feral mind swallows him before her heart can protest.

* * *

 

The world shifts and burns, and then she finds herself in a different world, a world thousands of years from the world she once knew. The magic is gone, but it isn’t all bad: here there is internet and coffee, and some days she thinks that’s better than magic, anyway.

In this life, she is a perpetual student, working at a coffee shop at the university she attends. She meets him by accident when he comes into her shop.

She’s older than he is, this time, but his eyes are always the same, and she recognizes him instantly.

“ _Did you find the answer for your sorrow?_ ” She asks him, in a language that has never existed in this world.

He opens his mouth to answer her, but then the bomb goes off, and this world is no more, either.

* * *

 

He realizes, too late, that the next world they are born into makes her _Andraste_ , of all things, as if her human-ness would ever make him love her less.

He casts himself in the role of Shartan, and she laughs. “As if you were ever anyone other than the Maker in this tale,” she tells him, and banishes him with a kiss.

* * *

 

The next world, she isn’t a person at all—only a spirit, content to wander the Fade and spread wisdom where she can.

She realizes too late that she’s _that_ Spirit of Wisdom, and she cries out to him for help because it’s the only thing she knows to do.

_“Mala suledin nadas,”_ she tells him while dying, as a human who bears a mark similar to the one she used to have watches on. _Now, you must endure._

He does, for a little bit. But he never lasts long without her, and soon the world is on fire again, and they must start anew.

* * *

 

There are thousands of lives that they live, most of them apart, and it always ends the same: with the world ending due to one or both of their mistakes.

Then, inexplicably, she finds herself as the Dalish hunter again, young and bright and free, with the same face she wore the first time she met him.

He stops her before she reaches the Conclave. “I am so tired, vhenan,” he confesses, sounding thousands of years older than he already is. “I’ve tried so hard, and yet I keep making the same mistakes, and I—either I end the world, or you do, but I can’t do it. Not again. Ir abelas, not again.”

She reaches out, and squeezes his hand. “Then don’t.”

He raises an eyebrow at her. “Corypheus has the orb. He’ll end the world if we don’t stop him.”

“Or maybe he won’t,” she muses, thoughtfulness written on her face. “The Inquisition has founded itself without me before. Maybe it can do the same without you.”

He thinks about all the past lives he’s lived—lives where the Inquisitor isn’t his beloved, but an angry dwarf, a silver-tongued human, a rather sarcastic Tal-Vashoth, countless others, and a million variations in between.

Each time, he’s led them, healed the mark on their hand, led them to Skyhold, mentored, shaped, argued and abandoned them.

He wonders how they’ll do without him.

“Where will we go?” He asks her, for the first time at a loss. Every other life, he’s had some sort of plan, some way to try and _fix_ things—

But this time, all he wants is her.

She smiles: “Wherever we want, ma vhenan.”

* * *

 

_And so we burned. We raised nations, we waged wars,_

_We dreamed up false gods, great demons_

_Who could cross the Veil into the waking world_

 

 


End file.
